


Whiskey Sour, Whiskey Sweet

by JuliaJekyll



Series: Good Omens Two Shots [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Repressed, First Kiss, Language, Love Confessions, M/M, Neck Kissing, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-14 02:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: "Despite his varied interests, Crowley rather thought that the most human thing about him was his relationship with alcohol. Humans drank to forget; to clear whatever was bothering them from their minds; to feel something good instead of everything bad, and Crowley drank for the same reasons."Crowley tries, unsuccessfully, to drink Aziraphale out of his head.





	1. Whiskey Sour

Crowley indulged in a lot of human things. He liked sleeping, he was a big fan of computers and phones and the like, and of course, he adored his car. He liked to think that Queen's "I'm in Love With My Car" had been written with him in mind. Oh, that was another thing: he quite liked human music. Queen, The Velvet Underground, the classical composers...he enjoyed all sorts. He liked the earth in general, really. That was why he'd saved it.

  
Despite his varied interests, Crowley rather thought that the most human thing about him was his relationship with alcohol. Humans drank to forget; to clear whatever was bothering them from their minds; to feel something good instead of everything bad, and Crowley drank for the same reasons.

  
He was immensely glad that his human body allowed him to experience the multifaceted joy of being drunk. It really was its own kind of bliss to deaden his memory with booze; to feel his rational mind slacken its grip on his decision-making process in a way that allowed him to babble nonsense and talk to strangers and feel, in a bizarre sort of way, like he was _normal_.

  
Crowley had never really been normal - not as an angel, not as a demon, and not as a hu- well, a more or less permanent resident of the earth. His use of alcohol as a sort of numbing agent when he was feeling a few too many things was, he thought, pretty typical, for someone trying to live in the guise of a human being. That was why he'd drunk himself into a stupor after he'd found out about the Spanish Inquisition, why he'd gotten blitzed with Aziraphale after kicking off Armageddon, and why he'd gone to the pub instead of Alpha Centauri when he'd thought Aziraphale was dead. When he was upset, he drank, and as far as he could tell, it was a very human habit.

  
Of course, there were differences. One of the perks of being a demon was that he could force the alcohol out of his system whenever he wanted, avoiding the nasty aftereffects to which humans were so susceptible and even allowing him to drink it again, if he chose. He thought it was the sort of power a human would kill for; it was literally the power to _never stop drinking_ , if that was what one wanted.  
That wasn't to say he'd never been hungover, though. There'd been times when he'd blacked out before he'd had the chance to sober up. He remembered awakening hours after various drinking binges throughout the centuries, sick and sore, head pounding and eyes aching, unsure of where he was. Once or twice he'd been so far gone that he'd forgotten he had the ability to snap himself sober. And on more than one occasion, he’d made a conscious decision to let himself get a hangover, simply because he wanted to feel the pain. It was like his own peculiar brand of self-flagellation. His weird, misguided attempt to pretend he was human.

  
He was pretty sure that was what he was going to do this time, as he knocked back a fifth shot of whiskey. He'd already sobered up once tonight, just so he could drink the same whiskey again, and he didn't feel inclined to stop anytime soon. He figured he'd fall asleep drunk and accept the inevitability – or ineffability, he thought, with a pang of sadness – of the hangover to come, prolonging the experience and allowing him to ignore his actual reasons for drinking just that little bit longer.

  
Crowley poured some more whiskey into a neat glass and began to wander aimlessly around his flat with it in his hand, sipping from it from time to time. His plants, wisely, hadn’t developed any spots on their leaves that he could see, though he made a blurry decision to check again when he was sober. Couldn’t have them getting complacent.

  
Crowley was a firm believer that drinking alone was cathartic. Besides, if you were by yourself when you were drunk, it made it that much harder for you to say something stupid to the wrong person. You were less likely, for example, to tell your angel best friend with whom you'd saved the world that you'd been hopelessly in love with him for the better part of six thousand years.

  
A human could be forgiven (though probably not by Crowley) for thinking that demons only _caused_ hurt; they didn't _feel_ it. But Crowley's pain had become as much a part of him as the sigil on the side of his face, or his yellow eyes with their disconcerting vertical pupils. It was the pain that came from being in love, which a demon wasn't supposed to be in the first place, and having no way to put the feeling aside.

  
Maybe that, not the alcohol, was the most human part of Crowley. His capacity for love and heartbreak.

  
Crowley sighed. He shouldn’t be this depressed. He’d just seen Aziraphale not three hours ago. They saw each other much more frequently now, since the almost-Apocalypse. They spent time at Aziraphale’s bookshop, or went for a drive in Crowley’s perfectly restored Bentley, or went out for some food or to the park. It was nice, now that they were fairly confident that Heaven and Hell would be leaving them to their own devices and they could be honest about their friendship. But Crowley was still holding back, for reasons he didn’t quite understand. He’d loved Aziraphale for so long that he’d almost gotten used to it. It had been something of a background feeling for the past few centuries, something he recognised and acknowledged but would never dream of acting on. Now, though, after all they’d been through, he’d started to think that maybe things could be different between them. That maybe Aziraphale could love him too.

  
But bless it all, what if he didn’t?

  
Crowley drained his glass. He was getting tired, or more accurately, desirous of sleep, since demons didn't technically get tired. He let himself drop onto the couch, the whiskey glass still in his hand. He shut his eyes. He was going to have - he chuckled mirthlessly to himself at the thought - a hell of a hangover when he woke up. He welcomed it. 


	2. Whiskey Sweet

The buzz of the doorbell ripped Crowley out of his deep, whiskey-laced sleep early the next morning. He groaned as the sound reverberated in his skull, setting off a pounding headache that had been waiting in the wings of his head and forcing him to peel his eyes open.

  
“Clear off!” he shouted at the top of his voice. There was silence for a few seconds, and then the doorbell rang again, the sound seeming to embed itself deep in Crowley’s brain.

  
Aggravated, Crowley pushed himself to his feet, but he did it too quickly, and a wave of vertigo made him sink right back onto the couch again. He dropped his head into his hands and took a deep breath. Sweat was gathering at his hairline, making his skin feel clammy.

  
The doorbell rang yet again, and then whoever was out there began knocking, loudly, on the door.

  
“Whoever you are, I hope you’re ready to _suffer_!” Crowley shouted, and stood up gingerly. This was another perk of being a demon: you never had to make idle threats. He was in no physical shape to make anyone suffer, but demons had a plethora of methods for causing pain to others. It was their job, after all. 

He stumbled to the door, agony thrumming from the front of his head to the back, his throat on fire with thirst, the floor feeling unsteady under his feet. He took a moment to growl “mind your own bloody business” at one of his plants whose leaves were leaning toward him a bit too curiously before he laid hold of the doorknob. His hands shook as he turned it and opened the door, and the creative threat he’d formulated died on his lips as soon as he saw that it was Aziraphale.

  
“Angel?” Crowley said in genuine surprise.

  
“Crowley, what on earth were you shouting for? I was getting ready to-” he dropped his voice “-miracle the door open!”

  
“I wish you had; then I wouldn’t have had to get up,” Crowley muttered, leaning against the doorframe to keep himself upright. “What are you doing here so early, angel?”

  
“Early?” Aziraphale repeated. “It’s nearly ten in the morning, dear boy.”

  
“Like I said,” Crowley groused, “early.” He turned around and walked back into the flat, not inviting Aziraphale in, but leaving the door open and trusting that the angel would follow. He did, with audibly cautious steps, shutting the door behind him.

  
“What’s wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. “You look like He – uh, like you’re not feeling well.”

  
“’m not.” Crowley sank onto his sofa again, crossing his ankles. He slid down until he was low enough to be able to rest his aching head on the back of the couch.

  
Aziraphale sat down beside him, several inches away, clearly trying to give Crowley space, and it just made Crowley love him more. Why did he have to be so goddamned _considerate_?

  
“I just thought I’d pop in,” Aziraphale said.

  
“In the neighborhood, were you?”

  
If Crowley hadn’t had his eyes closed, he would have noticed that Aziraphale blushed at that. “Something like that,” the Principality replied. “Is this a bad time?” 

  
Crowley turned his head toward Aziraphale and opened his eyes. They looked at each other for a moment before Crowley said “You’ve caught me in a bit of a state, I’m afraid. My evening involved quite a lot of whiskey.”

  
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  
“And I didn’t miracle it away.”

  
“Ah.” Aziraphale nodded his understanding. “You’re hungover.”

  
“Very.” Crowley leaned back and closed his eyes again.

  
“Let’s get some tea and food into you, then,” Aziraphale said briskly.

  
“No,” Crowley moaned, “I’m fine, angel. Just…you know what, maybe you can come back later, and we’ll-”

  
“Oh, come now, my dear. I know you don’t eat very often, but it helps; it really does. Hang on a moment; just stay there.”

  
“Oh, I’m not planning on getting up,” Crowley said. He heard Aziraphale bustle out of the room and groaned softly to himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Aziraphale there – if Crowley could arrange the universe so that Aziraphale was where he was at all times, he was fairly certain he would do just that – but it made his heart prickle with want every time the angel was kind to him like this. Angels were all about love, so it made sense that Aziraphale was such a good friend, but he wasn’t obligated to be nice to a demon. He just _was_.

  
“Here we are,” Aziraphale said, almost to himself as he came back into the room and sat beside Crowley. “Black tea and toast; should be easy on your stomach. Eat up.”

  
Crowley didn’t move for a moment. When at last he opened his eyes again, Aziraphale was watching him expectantly, his blue eyes full of concern and affection. Crowley’s heart sped up, and nothing in Heaven or Hell could have prevented him from finally saying what he’d wanted to say for centuries.

  
“I love you. I actually fucking love you, you know.”

  
Aziraphale froze. His mouth opened slightly as he stared at Crowley.

  
Crowley felt his jaw working, but he couldn’t force any more words out. There was a long, tense silence.

  
Aziraphale blinked. “Do you mean-”

  
“Yes,” Crowley interrupted him, not needing to hear the whole question to know the answer. “I mean everything you’re thinking; everything that’s ever been meant by ‘I love you’, in all of recorded and unrecorded history. I _love_ you, you absolute _angel_.”

  
A flicker of a smile, something between happiness and disbelief, touched Aziraphale’s face as he stared into the teacup he’d brought for Crowley. When he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes. “Good,” he said. He set the tea down on the coffee table and leaned forward. He brushed aside some of Crowley’s hair with his fingers and pressed a kiss to the demon’s forehead. Every nerve in Crowley’s body seemed to be quivering. 

Unable to help himself when the angel was that close, Crowley pushed himself up so that he could kiss Aziraphale’s neck, just under the Adam’s apple – why the humans had decided that the fruit of knowledge in the garden had been an apple, not to mention why they’d named this body part after it, Crowley had never understood – and Aziraphale’s skin was as smooth as Crowley had always imagined it would be. Aziraphale didn’t pull away, in fact, he gasped “oh” as Crowley kissed downward, eventually coming to rest his mouth between the angel’s clavicles.

  
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice hoarse.

  
Crowley pressed his face into Aziraphale’s neck, breathing him in. “ _Fuck_ , Aziraphale,” he moaned. “I _want_ you. So much.” He swore copiously in Latin, which, in his opinion, was the best language for swearing that the humans had ever created. They hadn’t spoken Latin since Rome, but Aziraphale laughed.

  
“You’re going to bruise my angelic skin, talking like that,” he said.

  
“Oh, I’ll bruise it, alright, if you give me half a chance,” Crowley growled. To prove his point, he sucked gently at Aziraphale’s throat, causing the angel to gasp and reach his hand up to Crowley’s back, holding him in place.

  
“Oh, yes…don’t stop doing that, please,” Aziraphale babbled.

  
Crowley sank his teeth into Aziraphale’s throat.

  
“Oh, _Crowley_!” Aziraphale cried.

  
“Angel, can I kiss you, please? On the mouth, I mean,” Crowley requested, his lips still working on Aziraphale’s neck. “I really want to; you have no idea-”

  
“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale moaned.

  
Crowley raised his face. He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes for a moment, seeing the desire and eagerness there, and then finally, _finally_ , he kissed him.

Aziraphale wasted no time in responding, kissing back, opening his mouth, wrapping his arms around Crowley, running his hands over his back. “Oh, dear boy-”

  
“I love you, angel. I really do.”

  
“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale kissed him again, then laughed gently. "You taste like whiskey." 

Crowley smiled. "I am still very hungover, angel," he said. "I think I'm going to need you to keep taking care of me today. And also maybe for the rest of my existence." 

"I was always going to do that," Aziraphale replied, "but I think it'll be much nicer now that I can kiss you whenever I like." He kissed Crowley again, and gazed at him fondly. "I love you too." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoyed the fic? Let me know! :)   
> Also be sure to check out my other Good Omens fics!


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